There Can be Only One shots
by L Moonshade
Summary: Just what it says on the tin; a series of one-shots, some of them crossovers, all of them Highlander, that really have no place with any of my other works. Rating may go up, depending on what I wind up writing.
1. Of Angels and Demons

Disclaimer: I don't own anything from any published works that you may recognize in here. I'm just playing around and will return everything when I'm done.

A/N: This will be updated infrequently and without schedule, but I'm sure there will be more.

* * *

Title: Of Angels and Demons

Category: Highlander/Good Omens

Note: The OC featured here, Kate, is from my story From Angels to Demons and its sequels. You don't have to have read them to understand this, though I will tell you that she comes from a reality where Highlander is a TV show.

**XXXXXX**

Kate frowned as they approached the bookstore. It was a small, dingy little shop that sold antique books with an open sign in the window, tiny and hidden as if the owner didn't really want any patrons. The inside didn't change Kate's opinion; it was just as dark and dusty as the outside and she gave a litle sneeze.

"Who's there?" Aziraphale asked, trying, and failing, not to sound too obviously upset at the prospect of selling something.

"He'll never change," Methos murmured to Kate. "He hates the thought of actually making a sale and parting with one of his precious books."

Her jaw dropped. "This is Aziraphale's shop?"

As he made his way into the main shop Aziraphale frowned, wondering how she could know him. He wasn't acquainted with many women, after all.(1) "Who...?" he began, trailing off when he caught sight of the two. "Good Lord, can it really be...?" he trailed off again, seemingly not sure what else to say.

"It's all right, Kate knows," Methos told him. "Kate, I thought you said you didn't know of any friends I had in London."

"He's from a book, not the show."

"Who's that?" someone called from the back room.

"Is that Crowley back there?"

Aziraphale looked at Kate, surprised. "How on earth could you know who it was?"

She fixed him with The Look. "Do you ever have any other visitors?" She gave a nod when he said nothing. "He seems to be the one person you actually like spending time with."

"Oh. Er, yes, well, I suppose that is true."(2)

"Adam!" Crowley bellowed, coming into the main room. "It is Adam still, isn't it?"

"No, actually, it's David, and aren't you glad she knows all about me? Crowley, Aziraphale, I'd like you to meet my wife, Kate."

Aziraphale looked shocked. "Wife? You did have a cermeony, didn't you?"

"Not one to be witnessed if I know Adam," Crowley laughed. "Sorry, David."

Kate snickered. "One of each, actually. Love, how long did you say you've known them?"

Aziraphale cleared his throat softly, while Crowley crossed his arms and leaned against the counter to watch the show with a smirk.(3)

Methos frowned. "I've known their families..."

"Their families?" she asked, incredulous.

Aziraphale waved his hand, to no avail.

"For almost my whole life," Methos finished. "Why?"

"That doesn't seem strange to you?" Kate asked, not noticing the way Aziraphale was now flailing his arm from behind Methos' back.(4)

"Give it up, angel," Crowley chuckled.

"I suppose, now that I think about it..."

"Or the fact that they haven't changed, in all the time you've know their 'families'?"

Aziraphale(5) let his arms drop. "Good Lady, we have ways of making him forget that part of it," he sighed.

Kate gave a contrite smile that no one believed. "Oops."

Methos glanced from her to Aziraphale and from Aziraphale to Crowley before looking back at Kate. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, Aziraphale, here, is an angel, and..."

Methos held up a hand to stop her so he could take in that piece of information. He regarded Aziraphale for a long moment, before shaking his head with a wry laugh. "That explains quite a bit, really."(6) Then, looking at Crowley, "What about you? I know you're no angel."

Crowley leered. Aziraphale looked from one to the other and back before blushing slightly. "Oh. Oh my. I don't think I need that particular image running around in my head."

"Be a good boy and send it over here, then."

Crowley threw his head back and laughed. "Oh, I do like this one." He waved a hand, telling her to get on with it. "Do explain, won't you? Far be it from me to take away your fun."

Kate grinned. "Crowley is... Well, an angel who didn't so much fall as saunter vaguely downwards."

Now it was Methos' turn to laugh. "Yes, that explains quite a bit, as well. And you never told me? Shame, didn't you think I'd be able to handle it?"

Aziraphale and Crowley glanced at each other in a way Kate wasn't sure she liked at all. "Orders from Above."

"And Below."

"Surely you understand."

"Yes, I suppose so. All right, then. Let's pull out the booze so you can tell us what you've been doing this century."

* * *

(1) Truth be told he wasn't acquainted with many men, either. His favorite companions were his books and his coacoa (and Crowley, though all the Flaming Hoardes of Hell ((and the Not-So-Flaming Armies of Heaven)) couldn't drag that piece of information out of him).

(2) Of course, neither the Flaming Hoardes of Hell nor the Not-So-Flaming Armies of Heaven could hope to match the level of terror instilled by The Look as given by the mother of a teenager.

(3) It was something he did often when Methos was around. The old man was so very good at flustering the angel that Crowley felt he could take a break and enjoy.

(4) This may seem strange, until you take into consideration the fact that she was the mother of a teenager and ignoring things she didn't want to face was a survival technique. Of course, idiot boyfriends (or girlfriends; Kate was, after all, tolerant and open-minded) didn't fall in the category of Things That Can be Ignored, but that didn't matter because there had been none. She had taken her father's advice and killed the first one (remembering all too well her own first boyfriend), thus ensuring that those who followed would fall in line. The fact that she could hit the bullseye with an axe from ten feet helped. The fact that her husband could do it from thirty helped even more.

(5) Who had been about to pull out the semaphore flags.

(6) Such as the way he came across, in nearly everything he did, as being less British and more like he was gayer than a tree full of monkeys on ether.


	2. Immortals, Young and Old

Title: Immortals, Young and Old

Category: Highlander/NCIS

Summary: How Immortal Gibbs and Abby might have met.

* * *

"You wanted to see me, Director?"

Morrow looked up. "Agent Gibbs, we need to hire another forensic expert. You've talked to the applicants?"

Gibbs nodded. "Yeah." He was glad he'd learned long ago to keep his emotions off his face; no one would notice the lack, now. "Yeah, and I don't like any of them."

NCIS Director Morrow sighed. He'd known that would be the case, but they'd been without an expert for nearly a month, after he'd been hurt in a car accident. "We just got three more, today." He handed Gibbs the applications. "Call and set up interviews. And hire one of them, damn it."

Gibbs frowned. "Isn't hiring your department?"

"Not when it comes to people you are going to be working with, Agent Gibbs. You need to find someone who can deal with you."

"Doesn't work if you tell me to."

"I wouldn't have to if you'd give me a recommendation." When Gibbs said nothing, Morrow nodded. "Exactly. We're out of time. You have the day for this," Morrow said then went back to his paperwork. Gibbs, knowing when he was dismissed, he left.

The first two interviewees, a young single man and an older married gentleman, didn't last long. The younger one lacked confidence and the older refused to work anything but 9 to 5. Gibbs thanked them for their time and sent them on their way.

After all that, he decided he needed some food and coffee. No reason not to hold the last interview over lunch, he thought as he dialed the last number.

The other end was answered with a perky, "Hello?"

"May I speak to Abigail Scuito?"

"You are, but it's Abby, please."

Great, he thought. Her voice was a bit husky, but the way she spoke sounded far too young. "Miss Scuito, I'm Special Agent Gibbs, with NCIS."

"Are you calling about my application?"

"Yeah. I'd like to meet for an interview."

"Now? Sure, but it'll have to be over lunch."

"That's fine. Do you know Forte?"

"Are you kidding, it's my favorite place. In fact, I'm heading there now; I'll be sitting outside, it's too nice a day to be indoors."

He had to agree. "How will I know you?"

She laughed. "Trust me, Agent Gibbs, you'll find me."

He sighed. "I'll be there in about 20 minutes," he said then hung up.

When he got there, the hostess led him outside. He stepped out the door, tensing with the sense of another Immortal. It was still early and there was only one person outside, a young woman with black hair pulled into pigtails, tattooed and dressed in black and dark red with platform heels and a spiked collar. She'd been right; he would have found her even in a crowd. Abigail—Abby—Scuito was definitely a unique woman.

She'd seen him and, when he made his way over, stood. "You must be Agent Gibbs. Abby Scuito."

"It's nice to meet you," he said, shaking the hand she offered. There was a definite lack of reaction to his Presence, which would make her a pre-Immortal, and Gibbs felt annoyed. He would have rather she be fully Immortal and willing to Challenge him.

"Coffee, black," he told the waiter who'd come to take his order. "Porter house, rare, baked potato, sour cream and butter."

"Pepsi, and an oriental chicken salad. Thanks."

"I've looked over your qualifications," he said as they sat. "They're good. Why NCIS?"

Abby heaved a sigh. "I didn't expect to get hired, or even get a serious interview, not once you saw me. It was a last resort; no one wants to hire me. I'm not just bragging when I say that I'm good, I mean really, really good, but no one looks past the tattoos and outfits."

Or her looks, Gibbs thoughts. She was lovely, tall and well-built, with intense green eyes. Too bad all he wanted to do was find a Challenge he couldn't win. It had been a couple of years since he'd lost his wife and adopted daughter, but he still hadn't recovered. In the end, he just hadn't found a reason to go on.

"I can see where that might be the case." He pulled out the list of equipment. Morrow was still trying to get the funds to get it all replaced, but it had proved to be a good litmus test, given that only two applicants had recognized how out of date it was, and that only when they actually saw it. "This is what you'd be working with."

It only took her a couple of seconds. "Oh, hell no. You have got to be joking, this stuff is ancient. I mean, I can still work with it, but the results will take a ton more time than they should."

That was a point in her favor. "We're working on getting it budgeted. Make a list of what we should have."

"I can do that right now," she said, digging into her purse for a pen. "Even though I'm not working, I still attend conferences. It's the best way to stay up-to-date."

Yet another check in the plus column, but he wasn't quite ready to commit just yet. "So, how did you get into forensics?" he asked, mildly curious.

"Oh, we lived next to a car yard. I'd go crawl around and try to figure out what'd happened. I love puzzles, not jigsaw, but logic puzzles, and that's really what forensics are. Logic puzzles. The fact that I can use it to help catch bad guys makes it that much better."

"What did your parents think about it?"

"They were dismayed, until I graduated top of my class. They've always been proud of me. They're great, never treated me as anything but their own."

"You're adopted?" Gibbs said, feeling no great shock. He'd never met an Immortal who knew who their birth parents were, after all.

"Yeah. Dad found me in a dumpster at work one night. They took me to the hospital and, the way they tell it, stayed with me all night. By the time they found out I was going to be okay, they'd fallen in love and filed adoption papers. Once it was determined that my birth parents couldn't be found, the adoption was finalized. They're the only parents I've known, and I don't regret that one bit."

Gibbs smiled. "It sounds like you don't have any reason to. You listed ASL as one of your languages. How fluent are you?"

"I learned almost before I learned English. Mom and Dad are both deaf. They can read lips, but they wanted me to learn since they have a couple of nieces and nephews who can't." She signed something, her hands flying through the letters and words, a smirk on her lips.

Somehow, it didn't surprise Gibbs the words she knew. "I should wash your hands with soap, young lady," he signed back, hiding a smile.

Her cheeks flushed slightly with embarrassment. "Oh, God, you know sign, too?"

He let the grin show. "A very dear friend was deaf; he taught me." A dear friend, indeed, one of the few men he'd had a long-term relationship with. "And don't worry about the language. It's nothing I don't hear—or say—on a near daily basis."

Abby sighed, relieved, turning when the waiter joined them. "Ooh, thanks," she said as he set the plates down.

"Do you need anything else?"

"Just refills," Gibbs said, seeing that Abby's glass was empty, as well.

"Thanks," Abby told him, digging in.

They talked over food, asking and answering a few mildly personal questions as well as the give-and-take of the interview. Gibbs found himself liking her; she certainly knew what she was talking about and handled his gruff, snarky nature without taking offense. When they were done, he paid and walked her to her car.

"I'll let you know when the background check clears," he told her, handing her a card. "You'll be brought in on a probationary basis for the first three months, but I don't think there's much question of your getting offered the job permanently. In the meantime, here are my numbers. If you need anything, anything at all, feel free to give me a call."

Abby squealed and threw her arms around his neck. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" Then she jumped back as if burned, her cheeks coloring again. "Oh, God, I did it again."

"It's all right," Gibbs said, trying not to admit just how all right it was. "Just don't do it again. It'll be a few days, but you'll be starting in no time."

"I'll do my best, I promise," she grinned. "Until then, Agent Gibbs."

"Just Gibbs, Abby," he said, turning to leave.

It was nearly a week later when the ringing phone woke him and he jerked up, wincing and cursing when he saw what time it was. He debated just letting it go, but something told him that he should answer it. "Gibbs," he snapped.

"Gibbs, it's Abby," she sobbed. "I'm so freaked I don't want to be alone, but no one's going to believe me, not even you, and I know this isn't the image you should have of me, but I didn't know who else to call..."

He couldn't understand most of what she'd said. "Abby, calm down. What happened?"

She took a few deep, steadying breaths and, when she spoke again, it was at a much slower pace. "I can't tell you until you get here. You won't believe me, otherwise."

His heart lurched. That sounded ominous, and he had a terrible feeling that he knew what the problem was. "I'll be right there. Ten minutes."

"Thank you, Gibbs," Abby sobbed. "I'm just so scared."

"It'll be all right, Abby," he soothed, rushing to find his shoes. "I have to hang up, now, but I'll be there in just a few minutes. I promise."

"Okay."

When he got there the door opened before he could knock—almost before he could register the Buzz of a full Immortal—and Abby threw her arms around him, burying her face in the crook of his neck. She tried to say something but couldn't manage coherence through the tears, so he picked her up and carried her in, kicking the door shut behind him. In the living room, he could see a ladder laying on the floor under a crooked painting and, nearby, a shattered glass coffee table, a huge pool of blood under and around it. He moved through the room to the dining/kitchen area and set her in a chair, pulling one over so he could sit in front of her and take her hands. He said nothing, letting her calm down.

When she did, he told the story so she wouldn't have to relive it. "You were hanging the painting and the ladder fell. You passed out and, when you woke, found yourself in the middle of the broken table, and far too much blood for you to have not died."

She nodded, barely holding herself in control. "How did you know?"

"I investigate crime scenes for a living, and it's not difficult to see what happened." He reached up and brushed a lock of hair out of her face. "You called the right person. I do believe you."

Abby shook her head. "I don't believe me. I mean, if I died, how can I be talking to you, now? Unless you see ghosts..."

"You're not a ghost, or a vampire or a demon. Your head hurts."

It wasn't a question, but she answered anyway. "Yeah. Badly," she said, close to tears again.

He leaned in and kissed her forehead, an echo of his first teacher's actions when she told him what he was. "It's because I'm here. It's an early warning system; you'll feel an echo of your fatal injury every time one of us is near. Now that you know what it is, it should fade fairly quickly."

Gibbs could see the questions Abby wanted to ask and wondered which one she would choose. "I really died?"

"Yeah." He looked around, found the knife block, and pulled one out. "And you're not the only one." He sliced open his hand, let her watch it heal. "We're Immortal and we don't stay dead unless we're beheaded."

"Wait, you mean ever?"

"You'll never get sick again, any injuries will heal. If you are fatally injured, you'll revive once your body heals, just like you did tonight, and your body won't age. From this point on, you'll always look the way you do, now."

"So, how old were you?" she asked, more calm now that she knew she was neither crazy nor alone.

He had to think about that. "Forty-two? Early forties, anyhow."

She blinked, surprised. "You don't remember?"

"Abby, I don't even know when my birthday is. I was born before the modern calendar. It's impossible to figure out what the dates are after the fact."

"How much before?"

"Roughly 2000 years before."

Abby made a few attempts at speaking before she found her voice. "You can't be serious."

"I was a Roman Centurion, died in battle. Ten years later, I ran into another one of us who was more interested in teaching than killing me. When one Immortal beheads another, he gets the other's... Essence, power. We call it a Quickening. There are far too many who play the Game, who want to consolidate power. They'll Challenge any other Immortal they run across. I don't; I only fight when I have to in order to keep my head."

"That means swords, right? Well, I could carry a gun..."

"There are Rules. No witnesses, one-on-one, and no weapons other than a sword or axe. There are those who break them, but surprisingly few."

Abby shook her head. "I don't want to fight."

"If you don't learn, you're signing your death warrant. There is no fighting on Holy Ground—no Immortal will break that Rule—but you can't hide there forever."

"No, I suppose not. Gibbs, I've never even held a sword, before. What am I going to do?"

"Do you trust me, Abby?" If she did, then she would call McCormack when Gibbs told her to.

She glared at him, the effect somewhat diminished by her puffy, blood-shot eyes. "You were the first one I called. Not my friends, or my parents, but you. What's that tell you?"

"I'll train you, if you let me." The minute the words were out of his mouth, he realized that he'd spoken before he'd thought. He didn't want a student, didn't want the responsibility.

Abby sighed, relieved. "I'd like that. You make me feel safe."

So much for passing her off to McCormack. She needed him and he found that was enough to keep him going, for a little while longer, at least. He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, again. "I'd like that, too, Abs. I'd like that, too."


	3. Vampires and Demons and Feds

This started out as an exercise in writing Crowley from Supernatural and somewhere along the way it mutated into... This. I swore I wasn't going to do more than two fandoms in a crossover, but, like I said, this mutated and it was really fun to write.

Title: Vampires and Demons and Feds

Category: Supernatural with a hint of Highlander, NCIS and Good Omens

Note: Yes, I'm back to Kate, at least briefly. There is no context here; I have no idea how she managed to convince Dean that she's one of the good guys and I'm not entirely sure how they met or where this is. It takes place sometime during Season 3 of Supernatural and makes no reference to the Highlander or NCIS timelines.

* * *

They were at a four-way intersection decorated with yarrow when Kate said, "Stop here."

Dean had no idea exactly what she was up to, but he knew what his answer was. "No."

"Dean, if you don't stop here, I'm going to jump out of the damn car."

He grumbled but gave in, following her out. "Kate, whatever you're doing…"

"Did you know that cats are supernatural creatures, themselves?" she asked, surprising him with what seemed to be a non sequitur. "There's almost nothing that happens in the world that they don't know about. And they use it."

Dean frowned. "Use it, how?"

"They know that there will always be demons. That there will always be those who have no power or knowledge and want what the _Fe_—cats—can offer."

He didn't like the sound of that. "So, what? They make deals like demons?"

"Deals, yes. Souls, on the other hand? No."

"Then what…?"

"Favors. And any _Fe_ can call in any favor for any reason at any time." She turned and made her way towards the center of the crossroads. "Oh, did I mention? Lilith's second-in-command happens to owe the _Fe_ quite a few favors."

Dean pulled out a shotgun and some shells then followed her. "So, what are you going to do? You're not a cat."

"_S'Fe wwyn_," she said, the strange words a purr. "'The Fe are one.' In other words, a cat is a cat is a cat. They accept me as one of their own, therefore I can call in favors."

"Why?"

"Because you are the last person who belongs in Hell, Dean. You're a far better man than you give yourself credit for." She turned to look at him as he approached, a soft smile on her face. "And you're a friend. I go to the mat for the people I care for."

He couldn't argue with that, though he wasn't sure why she thought of him like that. "Yeah, think I've heard that somewhere." Then, after a moment, "A friend? Really?"

She shrugged. "We've got a lot in common. Music, movies… Besides, you've accepted the fact that I'm not like the vamps you hunt. If that's not a friend, I don't know what is." She stepped into the very center of the intersection. "Crowley," she called softly.

Dean was surprised. "Wait, you're not going to bury anything?"

"You don't have to in order to get a crossroads demon's attention, you do so to symbolize that you have something to offer. But I'm not offering, I'm collecting." She turned for no reason Dean could see and frowned. "You're not who I called."

"You're lucky I'm here at all; I don't usually come for people who just stand there. So why the attitude?"

Dean spun to see a woman in her early twenties who was, like every crossroads demon Dean had ever seen, beautiful and elegant in a cocktail dress.

"I didn't come here to deal with subordinates. I want your boss, and I want him now."

The demon gave Kate a pitying look. "You can't just expect him to come as if he were a lowly, black-eyed grunt."

Kate moved forward, slow and deliberate, and Dean saw a transformation. Gone was the easy-going, flirtatious woman, replaced by a predator hunting prey.

"Someone has clearly been neglecting your education," she said, her voice quiet and all the more frightening for it. "I am one of the _Fe_, and he owes us a great many favors and his current position. So when one of us calls, he had better answer as if he were a lowly, black-eyed grunt."

The demon stood her ground, but Dean could tell she was spooked. He could appreciate that; Kate gave the impression that she could—and would—take her adversary out in a heartbeat.

Dean waited for the demon to say something but, before she could, Kate turned again. The demon looked almost relieved to no longer be the focus of Kate's attention.

"Don't worry yourself, Love," a male voice—surprising Dean with a British accent—said, "I've got this. But, in the future, tell me if it's a _Fe_ calling. The kitten, here, is right."

Kate raised an eyebrow as the first demon disappeared. "Kitten?" she growled.

Now that the other demon was gone, Dean turned to face the newcomer, a man in a dark suit that looked, to Dean's untrained eye, expensive. He also wore a smirk that looked less disdainful than amused.

"Oh, did I offend?" he asked with mock remorse. "Bit far from home, isn't it? What're you doing here, then?"

"Don't tell him anything," Dean said. "He doesn't need to know."

Crowley turned to regard the hunter. "Look, boy, I understand wanting to protect your girlfriend, but she. Don't. Need it. With this one, you get the lady _and_ the tiger, or didn't you know? So why don't you just go back to your car and let Mummy and Daddy talk, hmm?"

Dean raised the shotgun. "Listen here, you…"

"Dean, if you shoot him, I won't be able to get the answers I'm looking for."

The demon's amused smirk widened and he shoved his hands deep into his pockets. "You have to admit, the girl's got a point."

Dean did nothing for a moment then lowered his gun. "Fine. But the minute I get the Colt back…"

"Once he's repaid all his favors, you're welcome to do what you want. In the meantime, however, he's far too useful."

Dean was pissed. He wasn't convinced about favors and Kate was doing this for him; the last thing he wanted was to walk away only for her to do something stupid on his behalf. But she was a big girl and she'd proven that she wasn't foolish. No way she'd do something like that for someone she just met.

He hoped.

"Well, seeing as how I'm not needed," he grumbled and stalked back to the Impala.

The demon's eyebrows shot up. "Well, well. He may not be needed, but he is wanted, if I'm not mistaken. Isn't he a bit too… Hunter for you? And does your husband know about this?"

"You'd be well advised, Crowley, to mind your own business."

"Oh, yes, too right you… No, wait, I'm King of the bloody Crossroads. It's my job to mind other people's business."

"And in that, as in a great many things, we _Fe_ are the exception."

The demon scoffed. "Not so much, Kitten. If I didn't know better, I'd say that was Dean Winchester." When she didn't say anything, he nodded. "So that's the shape of it. And you want to know what it'll take to buy back his contract. Well, sorry to disappoint, but there is nothing Hell wants so much as Dean Winchester's soul. I suppose you know why?"

Kate gave the demon a glare. "Yes, I know, that's why I'm here. It'd be nice to stop _this_ apocalypse before it even starts. Killing Lilith won't even free him?" She knew the answer, but she was bound and determined to go through the motions. Besides, it wasn't like she was risking anything.

"Yeah, well, there's a big problem with that. See, even if it would—and I'm not saying that, mind you—your meal over there and his brother don't have what it takes. If I tell you anything and she don't die, then it's worse than death for me. And let me hasten to assure you that I don't owe you nearly enough to take that kind of risk. And I certainly don't like you nearly that much."

She grinned. "Love you, too. One of your knives couldn't do it?"

He looked at her with disbelief. "I thought you knew more than that. Should do, given who all your best friends are. Lilith's a white-eyed demon, Kitten, only yellow-eyes are higher on the food chain. Our knives don't work on demons of her caliber."

"And the Colt is out of the question."

It was a statement, so he didn't bother to respond. "Anything else I can do for you, Love?"

"No, that's all I wanted to know."

"Then it's time to ante up. I think that's, what? Two favors?"

Kate scoffed. "You can think that all you like, but you gave me little new information. One."

"One? I get one just for answering your bloody calls."

"No, you answer our calls because you know that, if you don't, we'll count it as one more you owe us." She held his gaze for a good few minutes before her mouth twitched and she broke into laughter. "Crowley, Crowley, Crowley. God… Luci… Someone knows I love you, but are you really trying to stare me down? I can stand up to my husband. No offense, but compared to that, you're nothing."

Crowley gave a wistful sigh. "Oh, for the days when people were actually afraid of me. And, none taken; the man can terrify even me." Then he frowned. "You haven't mentioned my new suit. Don't tell me you haven't noticed."

Kate rolled her eyes. "Of course I noticed. Noticed, and decided I like this one better."

Normally Crowley would have preened—he always loved having his ego stroked and he thought he'd made quite a catch when he'd possessed this poor bastard—but he was more worried about Kate's reaction. Or, rather, lack thereof. "Dare I ask why it seems as if this were nothing more than you expected?"

She smirked. "Because this is nothing more than I expected. The Winchesters' life is a TV show where I come from. I wasn't sure exactly when you were going to change meat suits but, after our last chat, I knew it'd be before we met, again."

Crowley didn't like that. "And I thought it was bad enough you knowing what's already happened in my life. Don't suppose you'd like give me a little preview of what's to come?"

Kate gave him a wicked grin. "Spoilers, Sweetie." Then, more serious, "Sorry, but I've stopped trying to change things."

His eyes flickered past her, to Dean. "Really? Couldn't prove it by me."

She shrugged. "It's never a bad idea to have a hunter or two in your debt, especially when you're talking about the Winchesters. Just be glad I'm not trying to bleed you for the Colt; they'd be in my debt for life, if I gave them that."

The demon winced. If she knew he had the Colt, things could get ugly. "Then I guess I'll just be thankful for all the bless… curse… luck I can get. So we're agreed, then. Two…"

"One."

He gave an unapologetic grin. "One favor written off." Crowley stepped forward but she held up a hand.

"Sorry, but the stakes of this deal are not that high."

He shrugged. "Can't blame a chap for trying. If you need anything else, please. Hesitate to call." With that, he disappeared.

Dean frowned as Kate made her way back to him. "Two of you seemed awfully cozy."

She shrugged. "We've met socially; we have a few mutual friends. He's really not a terrible guy, if you look past all the Hellfire and soul-bartering."

Dean's jaw dropped. "You hang out with him?"

"What do you want me to do, Dean, exorcize him? Drive a demon knife through his heart? Sometimes, it's better to deal with the devil you know. Especially when you have leverage."

Dean didn't like it, but he supposed he couldn't fault her too much for her view. Not that he had to share it, but if it kept him out of Hell… "So what'd you learn?"

"Nothing good," she said, voice filled with sympathy. "According to him, there's nothing Hell wants more than you."

Dean forced a smile. "It's nice to be loved. Don't suppose he said why?"

"No," she said, which was true enough.

"Well, thanks for trying."

It was a silent but short ride to the bar and Kate's car. Dean parked, but they just sat there for a long moment.

"Look, I know you've got the FBI on your tail…"

Dean frowned. "How?"

"My mentor wanted your case. He complained for weeks after it was given to Henriksen."

Dean was confused. "I thought you were with NCIS."

"Started out with Bureau. Met my current boss about a year after I graduated FLETC, when we worked a case together. I impressed him, he was a man down, so…"

He shook his head. "I still don't know why you haven't turned us in."

"For the same reason Matthew wanted your case. We know who you really are and what you really do, and we know that the Winchesters behind bars will _not_ make the world a safer place." She reached into her pocket and pulled out two business cards that she handed to him. Not hers, but Methos'. "One for you and one for Sam. If Henriksen manages to nab you, call David, let him know."

"Your husband? What can he do?"

Kate chuckled. "He can call me. And if that doesn't work? Well, he seems to have quite a few low friends in high places."

Dean snickered. "Yeah, those can come in handy." He found a pen and memo pad and jotted down three numbers. "First one's mine, the second one's Sam's. Third is a friend of ours, Bobby Singer. He does research for a number of hunters; I'll make sure they know about you, know to take your call."

"It's appreciated." She hesitated then leaned forward and pressed her lips to his in a chaste kiss. "It was good meeting you."

"Yeah. You, too." He waited until she was almost out of the car. "Hey, sorry about the hustle. If you want your money back…"

She turned and gave him a smile that said she knew a hell of a lot more than he did and wasn't going to change that any time soon. "I knew what you were doing as well as I know how badly I suck at pool."

He blinked, surprised. "Then why…?"

"Because I can afford it, because I know you can use the money. And because you were the only one there who looked good enough to eat." With that she left, though Dean could hear her say, "Bye, Sammy," as his brother got into the car.

"Uh, yeah, bye," Sam called over his shoulder. Then, to Dean, "You told her to call me Sammy? Jerk."

"No, I didn't. Bitch." He handed Sam one of Addison's cards and pocketed the other. "She's a fed, NCIS. Told us to call him if Henriksen ever catches up to us."

Sam looked at the card. "Who's this?"

"Her husband. She says he's got friends and, in any case, I'm willing to bet that if he tells her we're in trouble, she'd come."

Sam frowned. "Why do you say that?"

Dean took a deep breath as he pulled out of the lot. "Well, on our way here…"


	4. Road Virus Remix

A/N: An example of a story I've been trying to write for years. When it finally happened, though, it only took a couple of hours. This isn't beta'd; any mistakes are mine.

Title: Road Virus Remix

Category: Highlander/Stephen King

* * *

Methos didn't bother looking away from the painting hanging above his fireplace when he heard the knock. Instead he just called, "It's open, Joe."

A moment later, Joe was stepping into the room. "What's so important I had to get my ass over here so late?"

"You remember that painting I showed you earlier?"

Joe frowned. "Yeah, course I do. Why?"

Methos gestured at the fireplace. He knew Joe had looked when he heard a disbelieving laugh.

"What is this, some kinda joke?"

Methos gestured again, this time at the book sitting in the other chair. "No joke. Read the story I've marked. We'll talk when you're done."

Joe limped over to the chair and picked up the book. "Stephen King?" he asked, sitting down. "Wouldn't have thought this was your type of thing, Old Man."

"No, it wasn't Adam's type of thing. Me, however? I've read everything the man's ever written. Particularly that story."

The younger man opened to the bookmark. "_The __Road __Virus __Heads __North_?" He froze then and looked back up at the painting. "Isn't that the name…?"

"Of that painting? Yes. Part of the reason I bought it."

Joe started reading. It was a relatively short story and he was a speedy reader, a talent developed in the course of going through hundreds of Watcher reports, and he was done in about an hour. He set the book aside, considerably more spooked even if he was certain—_had_ to be certain—this was a joke. "I admit, you had me going…"

Methos stood, grabbed the picture off the wall and, after breaking the glass, threw it into the fireplace. There was lighter fluid nearby and he liberally doused the canvas before lighting it. He waited until it was reduced to ash then turned to Joe.

"I need a drink."

Joe swallowed the sudden lump of fear. "Yeah. Me, too."

Methos, Joe noticed, didn't leave the room without his sword.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

Joe sat without a word, sipping at the whiskey Methos had poured. He'd just been told the whole story, how Methos had been antiquing with Duncan, seen the painting, bought it for a friend who would love it. That part of he knew, since Methos had stopped by his house for dinner on the way back, had shown him the painting and told him where and why he'd bought it.

The rest of the story, however, was new. Methos had gotten home and brought it in, taking another look before boxing it up to ship. And seen the change in the picture. When he'd first gotten it, the car had been on the Tacoma Narrows bridge, but when he pulled it out after getting home? Then the car had been empty, parked in front of the estate he and Duncan had been at. He'd burned the painting, remembering how that had saved someone in the story, then called Joe.

"Why'd you call? You could've just burned it again, right?"

"I didn't want to take the chance that when it came back, the Road Virus would be at your door," Methos said. "I didn't want it to be there and no time to burn it again before it got to you."

Made sense, Joe supposed. "Well, thanks. So, what now?"

Methos poured himself one more glass and knocked it back then stood. "Now, we see where it is."

When they got back to the library, Joe wasn't surprised—dismayed, yes, terrified, even, but not surprised—to see that the painting was back over the fireplace. Again it had changed; where the car had been getting off the Seacouver exit when Joe had arrived, now it was in a more residential area. A suburb.

"All sales final, huh?" Joe said, trying for humor and failing miserably.

"All sales final," Methos echoed in the same tone of voice. "Stay out of its way, Joe. I'm sure you're armed, but…"

Joe sat back down. "Hey, don't have to tell me a gun's not gonna work on this guy. So, what's the story behind the artist? Same deal?"

Methos leaned against the now-cold fireplace. "No idea. I didn't ask MacLeod for the particulars. Perhaps I should have."

"Would it've changed anything?"

The Immortal laughed harshly. "Yes, I would have made him buy the damned thing. He's the Boy Scout, let him deal with this shit."

"Cold, Old Man. Real cold."

"Hey, you asked. If you haven't figured out by now that Methos is a self-serving bastard, that's not my fault."

Joe scoffed. "Real self-serving. That's why you called me, right?"

"Had to fight this thing anyway, may as well save your ass while I'm at it." But Methos couldn't entirely hide the upturn in one corner of his mouth. The fact was that he played the uncaring survivor very well, but when it came to his friends he was anything but. And Joe was one of the closest he'd ever had.

They remained that way for a while, silent, each lost in his own thoughts, until Joe glanced up at the painting. "Look."

Methos did. The car was on his street, and now he could hear the rumbling of the engine. Two strides took him into the hall; he'd have more room in the library, but he wasn't about to spray blood around all those books.

All was still for a moment then the door burst open. The thing grinned, showing Methos a mouthful of sharp teeth and brandished a huge knife.

"Yep. That's a knife." The ancient Immortal, who had once been Death on a horse, gave his own evil smile and lifted his sword. "And this isn't."

He almost thought he saw a bit of fear in the thing's eyes, no doubt it had never faced someone who was unafraid, before. But whatever shock it felt at being threatened was quickly overcome and it approached Methos, who slipped into a ready stance and just waited.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

In the end, he should have fought in the library. But how was he to know that, once the Road Virus was dead, everything associated with it would disappear like mist in the sun? Even its blood.

Even that damned painting.

* * *

If anyone is interested in reading _The Road Virus Heads North_, it can be found in Stephen King's anthology, Everything's Eventual.


End file.
